


In Lieu of Flowers

by FB Wickersham (perpetfic)



Series: Hale County Township [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Female Protagonist, Female-Centric, Gen, Original Character(s), POV Female Character, hale county township, literary fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 12:15:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5205536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetfic/pseuds/FB%20Wickersham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Albert Lester is dead. Morgan Courter wonders if it matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Lieu of Flowers

It was a single piece of paper that delivered the news. Ivory, slightly heavier than printer paper but thinner than cardstock. Expensive, with an embossed seal in the upper left.  _Mitchum and Garrison. Attorneys at Law_. Their symbol was a stack of books under a balanced scale.

_Dear Ms. Morgan Courter:_

_It is our sad duty to report to you the death of Albert Lester. Please contact us at your earliest convenience to discuss the contents of his will._

_With our sympathies —_

Morgan looked out the window. The city was dingy under an off-white sky, and she wondered how they’d found her all the way out here. She’d have to be living in the ocean to be any farther away from where he’d last seen her. She reached for the letter and read it again, tilting it towards the window to look at the watermark. It was an eagle, its wings outstretched. Overkill, she thought with a wry smile. Especially for four lines.

The signature was illegible, just some squiggles and two dots signifying the name had an i or j, maybe both.

Morgan licked her thumb and swiped it across the signature. It didn’t smudge. More overkill, she thought. Someone who thought he could keep all of his correspondence brief. Someone who thought he was witty when he was actually boring, she thought, and she shook her head as she thought it. It wasn’t fair to be so rude about someone just because he’d had the misfortune of having to contact her about Albert Lester’s death. Whoever wrote the letter could be perfectly decent. The firm could have required the letterhead be so ridiculous.

It was a seven-minute walk to the train station, and a forty-minute ride to the local branch of Mitchum and Garrison. The sun dipped lower as she rode, turning the off-white sky to deep purple. Morgan spent the ride trying to figure out how to introduce herself to the receptionist. She had only the vaguest memory of Albert Lester. His face, framed by dull brown hair atop a lanky body, had been worn from her memory years ago. He felt like a beloved childhood drawing faded with age and disuse, and Morgan felt no connection to him, no spark of interest in trying to recall him further.

Morgan glanced down at her lap and realized the letter was still clutched in her hand, nearly crumpled down the middle from her grip. She smoothed it over her knee and read it again. The words hadn’t changed; they were just wrinkled. Albert Lester, she thought to herself and tried to pull up some type of reaction. All she felt was annoyance. Not at Albert Lester, but at whomever had sent the letter. Someone so self-important he couldn’t even sign his name legibly.

“Jackass,” she muttered. No one on the train heard her. They were going over the Hawthorne Bridge, and the train made a loud, prolonged screech as it rattled to the other side of the river. “Bastard,” she added as the train settled back onto the street track and rattled more quietly.

She stepped off the train at the stop nearest the law office and looked up at the sky. Clouds were rolling in, turning the purple sky gray. The gray reflected off the glass of the building that housed the law office, and Morgan stood outside for a few moments, trying to discern between the reflecting building and the clouds themselves.

The office was on the twenty-third floor. The reception area held a modern couch and a set of matching chairs that were all aggressive in their squareness. A well-dressed receptionist sat behind a chrome desk. Over her shoulder, in a stark sans serif, the names Mitchum and Garrison were attached to the wall in silver letters two feet high.

“Good afternoon,” the receptionist greeted Morgan. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No.” Morgan looked at the letter in her hand. She held it out, feeling like a child in the office with a note from home to explain her absence. She still did not know how to refer to herself in relation to Albert Lester. “I received this today,” she said, deciding to simply give the facts she knew. “I need to speak to whoever wrote it or whoever is authorized to talk to me about it.”

The receptionist took the letter, and her accommodating smile fell away as she read it. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said, giving Morgan a sorrowful, serious look. “I lost my father recently.”

He wasn’t my father, Morgan did not say. She was afraid it would make the receptionist burst into tears.

“If you’ll allow me a moment, I’ll see who you need to speak with.”

“Thank you.” Morgan walked across the lobby and sat on the square, modern couch. It was borderline uncomfortable, the cushions sticking out at the edges and not conforming around the backs of her knees. She wondered if it was a power play to keep opposing counsel and their clients on edge. There were no magazines, not even a coffee table. Morgan stared out the window at the view of the city. Three of the bridges were visible from the window. She wondered what the view cost Mitchum and Garrison in rent and if they argued for its worth in prestige.

“Ma’am,” the receptionist said as she hung up the phone, “Mr. Williams will be out in a moment to speak with you.”

“Thank you,” Morgan replied. The receptionist was watching her with concern. She is waiting for me to break down, Morgan thought. She must have loved her father very much.

“Do you need anything?”

“No, thank you.” Morgan looked out the window again so she wouldn’t have to watch the receptionist glancing at her every few seconds, her typing slowing as her eyes strayed from her work. She wondered what Mr. Williams looked like and what he would say and why Albert Lester had left instructions for her in his will. The last time she’d seen him, she’d been six. She was 36 now, a full exponential growth from her last memory of him.

“Ms. Courter?”

She turned from the window and looked at the man who had to be Mr. Williams. He was tall, with thin shoulders and a jaw that was not-quite classically square. He wore smudged glasses and had a sharp-edged haircut. He reached out to shake her hand before she’d stood up. “I’m Morgan Courter,” she said and shook his hand. “You wrote me the letter?”

“Yes. Well, my secretary did.”

“You didn’t sign your name.”

Mr. Williams looked confused. “Did I not?”

“It’s printed on,” Morgan explained. The confused furrow in his brow deepened, and she realized she’d stated it without explanation. “I’m in printing,” she explained, trying to laugh off the awkward silence between them. “The stationery caught my eye.”

Mr. Williams was quiet for a moment longer. “I see,” he finally said. “You’re here about the death of Albert Lester, correct?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

It wasn’t really a loss, Morgan thought, but she didn’t say it. The receptionist was watching them talk, blinking quickly like she was trying not to cry. “I’d like to just get through the discussion,” Morgan said. “Whatever I need to know about in his will, I mean.” She saw the receptionist turn her head away from them, and Morgan felt a heaviness along her neck at the responsibility she had here, not just to get through this meeting, but to do so with people who did not know Albert Lester and had drawn incorrect conclusions. “I’d just like to get through it,” she added, her voice quieter than she meant it to be.

“Of course,” Mr. Williams said. He stepped aside and waved her towards the chrome double doors just to the right of the reception desk. “We’ll talk in my office. Can I get you a beverage? Tea? Coffee? Water?”

“Water, please,” Morgan said as she preceded him through the chrome doors. There were no cubicles, just desks organized in rows surrounded by a ring of offices and a large conference room. Mr. Williams led her to an office in the corner that gave a view of the bridges that almost matched the view in the reception area. He pulled out a chair in front of his desk, then walked to the office door, speaking too low for Morgan to hear and at an angle where she could not see who he was talking to. When he stepped back into his office, he had a bottle of water in one hand. He closed the door with the other.

“Would you like a glass?”

“No, thank you.” Morgan took the bottle and twisted off the top, taking a long drink while Mr. Williams sat behind his desk.

He took off his glasses and cleaned them, then pulled a sheaf of papers from his bottom drawer. He set it in front of him and clasped his hands over it. “Mr. Lester died four months ago,” he said. “I apologize for the delay in contacting you. We had trouble locating you, as your last name has changed.”

“But you found me,” she snapped. She took a deep breath as Mr. Williams looked at her. “That wasn’t the tone I meant. I…” She trailed off, shaking her head.

“Yes,” Mr. Williams said, though Morgan wasn’t certain what he was agreeing to. “We employ some excellent private investigators for such occasions. It’s fairly common to have beneficiaries who are a long time removed from our clients.” Mr. Williams paused and looked down at the sheaf of papers, but he did not leaf through it. “Mr. Lester instructed that we inform you of two things. One was the notice of his death, which has been accomplished, and I — again — would like to extend my condolences.”

It doesn’t matter, Morgan thought. He was already a ghost. “Thank you,” she said, worried he would extend his condolences yet again if she did not thank him, and the room was already too full of his professional sympathy. Morgan felt claustrophobic and drank more water. Her hand shook as she twisted the cap back on.

“The second piece of information he wanted you to have was a copy of his medical records.” Mr. Williams lifted his hands from the sheaf of papers and held them out to Morgan. “He had some ill health in his later years, and he wanted to make sure you were aware of any possible detriments.”

Morgan took the papers and placed them in her lap. ALBERT LESTER was stamped along the top of the first page. She took another deep breath. “I see.”

There was a long, hard silence. Morgan looked at Mr. Williams, waiting for him to go on, but he said nothing more. “Was there something else?” she asked. She couldn’t stop glancing at the name. ALBERT LESTER. She’d seen his name more in the last two hours than in her whole life, she thought. Some sharp feeling prodded her low in her stomach.

“That’s all the information I was asked to impart,” Mr. Williams said. “Do you have any questions?” His tone was still sympathetic but professional. The sharp feeling in Morgan’s stomach prodded again.

“This is it?” Morgan asked, holding up the sheaf of papers, shaking them like she was preparing to throw them across the room. She was not entirely certain she wouldn’t. “A letter on fancy paper and forty minutes on the train to be told he’s dead and left me his medical records? You couldn’t have sent them by courier?” She laughed, but it was strangled, cutting off into a low, choked sound she swallowed back.

Mr. Williams tapped his index fingers on his desk for a moment, gauging her, Morgan realized, to decide what to say next. “Mr. Lester believed that was all you needed to know,” he said in an even tone, “and given the circumstances of your relationship — ”

“That’s a delicate way of putting it,” Morgan said. She’d only meant to think it, but the sharp feeling in her stomach was growing outward, crawling up her chest and prickling the back of her throat. Albert Lester was dead, and she was in his will. She didn’t understand why, and Mr. Williams seemed to have no answer for her. Albert Lester had left when she was six. He hadn’t waved goodbye when he’d gone. It was her only clear memory of him: his driving away, her waving as hard as she could and Albert Lester not waving back. Just going.

“Ms. Courter?” Mr. Williams said quietly. His brow was wrinkled in concern again, and she realized she felt very hot.

Morgan took a long drink of water, placed the cap on the bottle, and placed the bottle on a coaster on the edge of Mr. Williams’ desk. It almost missed its mark, and for a moment, Morgan was afraid the coaster and the bottle would clatter to the floor and cause even more awkwardness. “May I review his medical records here, please?” It was a ridiculous request, and Morgan opened her mouth to retract it, but Mr. Williams gave a polite nod.

“Of course.”

She flipped through them slowly, Mr. Williams making a show of letting her have time by rearranging the pens on his desk and shuffling around papers, making notes on papers that probably did not need notes on them. He was nervous, Morgan thought. She had no idea what she was. The sharp feeling was still prickling at the back of her throat, and she tried to ignore it by reading the records. Albert Lester suffered a heart condition and had been a borderline diabetic. She reached back in her memory and tried to remember anything of his eating habits. The only thing she could recall was a pink Easter basket overflowing with plastic blue grass. There’d been a tiny, soft teddy bear hidden amongst the candy and plastic eggs. She’d eaten all the candy in two days. The teddy bear had slept with her until she was ten. He had bought it, she thought now. Hadn’t he? Why else would she be thinking about it now?

At the back of the medical records, there was a short letter typed on plain white paper.

_Dear Morgan:_

_You have a half-brother. His name is Stephen Albert Lester. He’s eight years younger than you. He knows about you._

He had not signed the letter. Morgan wanted to swear, but when she opened her mouth, a small, pained sound came out, like she’d just stubbed her toe on a doorframe in the dark. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Williams stop his paper shuffling to look at her for a second before looking away again. “Stephen Albert Lester,” she said and looked at Mr. Williams. “He’s…” she couldn’t say  _my brother_. He was a stranger. “There’s a note here that says he’s my half-brother. Did you know this note was here?”

“No. I didn’t realize his name was in the records. My instructions were to give them to you, not to read them.”

“Have you met him?”

“Your brother?”

“Stephen Albert Lester,” Morgan corrected. He was not her brother. “Have you met him?”

“Yes,” Mr. Williams said. “I have his contact information. Given the circumstances, I could get in touch with him — ”

“What could I possibly have to tell him?” She tried to laugh at the ridiculousness of the idea, but she made the pained sound again. The sharp feeling at the back of her throat worked its way into her sinuses.

“He’s your brother,” Mr. Williams said as if it were the natural response.

“I’m an only child,” Morgan replied. “My mother never had other children.”

“Your father did.”

“He’s not my father.” To say it out loud made something squeeze and release in Morgan’s chest, but the sharp feeling moved up behind her eyes. “He’s not my father,” she said again. “He left when I was six.” Her voice broke on the word “six,” and she stared down at the medical records again, gritting her teeth and blinking back tears. She would not cry for him. She wouldn’t. “He left,” she hissed.

“Ms. Cour — ”

“And he never came back,” she forced out, and her voice was back again, louder than she meant. “I don’t even know why he left! My mother never knew. He just woke up one day and announced he was going.”

“Ms. Cour — ”

“Just announced it,” Morgan said even louder than Mr. Williams saying her name. “He said to my mother, ‘Tabby — her name is Tabatha, but he always called her ‘Tabby’ — ’I’m leaving,’ and when Mom asked when he was coming back, he didn’t answer. He picked up a packed bag, and he left. And we never heard from him again.” She stared at Mr. Williams as she forced herself to breathe in deep, to swallow as hard as she could. She forced herself not to cry because she would not cry for Albert Lester.

Mr. Williams rubbed a hand on the side of his face. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said in the tone of a professional soother. His earlier unease had faded, Morgan noted as she kept breathing deep. She wondered how many wills he handled as part of his work. How many estranged children. How many enraged exes. How many people who didn’t see themselves as having anything to do with the person leaving them stacks of paper. How odd, she thought, that it was the outburst that calmed him. “But that does not negate the fact that you have a brother,” Mr. Williams continued, his voice even more soothing.

“It does,” Morgan said. “It negates everything.”

“The sins of the father — ”

“I don’t have a fucking father,” Morgan snapped, tired of Mr. Williams’ trained politeness. “Not even on my birth certificate,” she continued, curling her hands into fists on top of the records. “I had his name removed when I changed mine. He doesn’t exist for me now just because he’s dead. He doesn’t get that.” Morgan swallowed hard against more tears. She closed her eyes until they felt drier. “He had thirty years to come back, and he didn’t. I will not make peace with him post-mortem.”

Mr. Williams looked even calmer. Morgan supposed he’d gotten similar answers before. “If that’s what you’d prefer,” he said. “Please feel free to contact me if you change your mind about contacting Stephen.”

“I made up my mind a long time ago,” Morgan said as she stood up and tucked the medical records under one arm. “Thank you, Mr. Williams,” she said, her voice holding steady. She held out her hand and shook his, firm as she could. “I’ll see myself out.”

Morgan didn’t look back as she walked to the lobby and then crossed the lobby to the door leading to the elevator. She heard the receptionist call out “Goodbye,” behind her, but she didn’t respond. She took the elevator to the ground floor and didn’t pause to think until she was at the train stop. She sat on the bench next to the ticket kiosk and looked at the papers in her hand. Stephen Albert Lester, she thought. My brother, she thought. She waited for an ache behind her ribs to tell her that she cared, that she should call Stephen Albert Lester and see if they had anything in common. My father is dead, she thought. There was no painful jolt, no feeling at all. She let her shoulders sag and rubbed the back of her neck.

Albert Lester is dead, she thought, and she felt the hollow sadness of hearing a stranger had died, now that her anger was gone. She worried in that human nature way about the people he’d left behind. She felt a pang of sympathy for Stephen Albert Lester who had lost his father, but there was no urgency to call up Stephen Albert Lester and ask after him and his family, ask what Albert Lester had been like as a father. She had no willingness to let him seek forgiveness through a man who happened to share his name.

It started to rain. Morgan tucked the medical records under her jacket, stood, and checked for the train.

**Author's Note:**

> The Hale County Township stories are connected, but nothing's a sequel to anything else. They're like third cousins at a family reunion; they know each other's faces, but they don't talk all that much.


End file.
